


the entomological practice of preservation

by maharieel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Butterflies, Death, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Heavy Angst, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharieel/pseuds/maharieel
Summary: a guide to pinning butterflies, and kings, and boys





	the entomological practice of preservation

**step one;**

it is likely that some time has passed since you collected your specimen, and it has likely been deceased for a few days at this point. in order to display a fully intact specimen at the end of the preservation process, the specimen must be in a relaxed-enough state that the act of pining will not damage its brittle exterior. some damp paper towels draped over the specimen for a short time should loosen any hardness, allowing you to softly squeeze the specimen's thorax to force the wings apart slightly. place the specimen gently back down so the pining process can begin. 

 

 

 

he was gone for ten years, they say when he stumbles awake into the never-ending night, and despite his time in the abyss passing in mere hours, noctis somehow feels he has aged alongside those he left behind all those years ago. his knees ache when he makes to stand in the prison on that lonesome island (funny, isn’t it, how some things come around – prompto had always wanted to visit this piece of jagged rock) and his trek through the darkness leaves muscles and bones throbbing from underuse and the threat of responsibility on the horizon.

noctis doesn’t admit it, but he almost breaks down when that van comes around the bend, if only because everything _hurts_ and _burns_ and –

he was never very good at guarding his emotions like his father always said he should and he does break down a little when they pull up under the decaying neon lights of hammerhead. a few tears even break their banks when those three achingly-familiar figures wander out of the restaurant, more hardened and scarred but the same underneath it all, when he looks closely, and it is all noctis can do not to let his knees give out right there in front of them all.

he is a king, after all, and kings do not weep.

instead, he pulls them close and ignores the way something within him cracks a little at the sight of ignis’ still-lost eyesight and the ever-present frown hanging over gladio’s brow and the way prompto’s hands shake where he has them fisted in his lap. his return has only cursed them to early graves, noctis thinks later when he sits beside the fire, and the thought wets his cheeks for the third time that night (as if they had not already become corpses the day he got pulled into that godforsaken crystal and never crawled back out like he was supposed to).

by the time he stutters out what he has wanted to say since he saw their weary, smile-torn faces through the windscreen of the van _("seeing you here now . . . it's more than i can take"),_ noctis cannot seem to stem the flow. he stumbles to the edge of the overhang, stumbles and _falls_ if he’s being honest, and lets himself weep into the dying grass beneath his knees. if the others hear the half-choked noises echoing from him well into the young-hours of the darkness, they let him be.

(he is still a boy, after all, a boy who left too many dead things behind in the ashes of his destiny, and he has earned the right to a few tears).

 

 

* 

 

 

**step two;**

extreme caution is recommended for this step. with a very delicate hand, slowly insert a pin through the centre of the specimen’s thorax and down through the middle of the body to keep the specimen in place. then, using thin sheets of paper to keep pressure on the wings, add pins into the main veins of and around the wings. multiple pins will be required. take care not to insert the pins into the fragile aspects of the wings as they will cause significant damage even in this relaxed state.

 

 

 

they get this wrong, or _he_ gets this wrong, or . . . well, things get jumbled in the closing seconds before it’s over and yet noctis finds it almost fitting, that it ends like this. that the king of kings is granted his peace by a vessel wearing his father’s face and not a flurry of blades from men lost to the expanse of time.

the flurry still occurs, of course. his return was not as simple as he told the others on the drive towards the city (the heavy stain to their eyes told him they knew, regardless – the gods were not fashioned to be kind) and noctis had resigned himself to the pain they would inflict upon him as payment for their blessing. seated on the throne he had always been doomed to ascend with the king’s sword in hand, the boy in him still screams as the first blade makes contact.

half-way through the flurry he loses his grip on the sword’s hilt and lets the boy within him take over because _it hurts_. it _hurts_ and _tears_ and _rips_ and leaves his soul hanging from his chest by a taut, bloody tether, but somehow he finds the strength to face it despite the tears streaming down his face and pooling at his feet.

_(“where is my son?” someone is saying, but noct can’t form a reply through the bloody haze and instead blindly throws his hand out to the side in desperation. it hurts it hurts it hurts and –_

_a large hand finds his own, and the tremors begin to subside at the contact. he absently feels more hands moving to grab at him where he lies prone, but again that voice cuts through the fog of his mind._

_“do not touch him.”_

_he is being lifted, and carried, and suddenly everything goes silent as the dim lights of a car fade out the rest of the world. in the quiet, he can barely make out the absent humming from the man who cradles him against his chest as if he could possibly break any more, but noct clings to the rhythm with what little strength his young, battered body still has. he can feel himself shivering still, and a tremor of pain shooting up his spine forces a small whine from his bloodied lips._

_“i’ve got you,” a voice whispers and in a fit of pain noct flashes his eyes open enough to spy his father’s face, skin pulled tight against bone and eyes wet now that they are in the privacy of the car. he starts whimpering again, the pain jolting down his legs now, and the sound only draws his father’s face closer to his._

_noct shivers as a few stray tears drop from his father’s chin onto his cheeks. “dad . . .”_

_“i’ve got you, noct. it’s going to be okay,” regis soothes, trembling hands wrapped around his battered frame tight enough to hurt. “trust me.”)_

broken and gasping for breath he no longer has, noctis turns to the figure to his left (the figure that has stood with a down-turned expression and listened to him scream and whimper and sob as a whole line of dead men tore into the king of kings like rabid dogs to their prey) and forces his voice not to break. not now. not for this.

“father,” he makes out, and he stutters it out again because the figure hasn’t moved _(move, dammit)_. “father . . . trust me.”

a slow turn of the head, and the figure is suddenly before noctis with his sword outstretched to point at where his soul hangs, waiting. all it needs is one final push, all _he_ needs is one final push and it will be done. he can close his eyes and never have to worry about the burden waiting for him when he awakens at the next dawn. the thought almost brings a smile to his ashen face.

noctis finds it fitting, that it is by his father’s steady hand and not the careless aim of his predecessors, that it ends.

(regis finds it cruel, that it has to end by his hand at all).

 

 

*

 

 

**step three;**

the specimen should have been left to rest and dry once more once the pinning process was completed. now, it is ready to be adorned in a display case with any other specimens you may have accumulated. carefully handle the specimen when removing the pins and placing it in the display case, as it will once again have become brittle in its dried state. position the specimen in the desired orientation and once again seal the display case. gently lay it wherever you wish for your specimen to be kept. 

 

 

 

ignis had hoped, as a boy, that in this the gods might find it within their hearts to be kind. foolish of him, he knows, and yet he finds the thought still running through his head in the years that follow; bloodied and barely able to keep himself upright, his heart still clings to the hope that he will be greeted by the sound of his friend’s destiny-worn voice and not a corpse as he struggles to ascend the steps to the citadel. kings and gods and prophecies later, and in the end all ignis had wished was for his friend to survive.

the gods are not kind, though, are harsh and cruel to their very core, and ignis – well, he should never have been a wishing man.

something begins to shrivel within ignis before he even moves to ascend into the keep. the daemons splutter and fail, darkness shattering where they lurch at the three of them, and none of them can find it in their hearts to even smile as the bodies fall and evaporate into the ether. gladio simply drops to his knees, breathing ragged, and lets the tremors fade while prompto stares vacantly at the distant horizon as if waiting for something _more_.

ignis doesn’t see it of course, but he feels it, and the shrivelling piece of his heart turns rotten at the ensuing silence. he stumbles and falters until the other two come to his aid almost instinctually and together they reluctantly begin their ascension.

_(“a king must stand tall when his people cannot and make decisions that affect the lives of the masses,” ignis says to noct one afternoon, when the boy is in a particularly foul mood. his exams had ‘drained the life out of him’, apparently, a fact that had made gladiolus push harder than usual in their trainings out of spite alone. entirely predictable, that ignis then had to bear the brunt of a disgruntled and sweat-stained crown prince and not his sworn shield. bastard. “he cannot be seen to have given up in the face of adversity.”_

_that earns him a grumbled curse. “yes, mother.”_

_“if you would stop moping, we could avoid this conversation entirely.”_

_“i’m not moping.”_

_ignis simply raises his brows in noct’s general direction before turning back to the paperwork spread out before him on the dining table. he had been handed the files on his way out of the palace that afternoon, reports on niflheim’s growing power and encroachment on foreign territories nothing new to his eyes. a particularly outraged headline from a newspaper clipping catches his eye, though, and brings a thought to mind._

_“noct, if i may?”_

_he gets nothing but a muffled acknowledgement in answer, and pushes forward regardless._

_“the situation with niflheim. you know of the details, i presume?”_

_that gets noct to his feet from where he has been lounging. his hair has been scattered and misplaced, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “yeah. what about it?”_

_ignis folds his arms and turns to face noct fully, eyes intent on the boy’s reaction. “how would you deal with the situation, if you were king in your father's place?”_

_noct shakes his head in anger (or frustration, ignis has yet to figure that particular mannerism out) and throws his hands out before him. “impale myself on a sword, i guess. that’s what i’m supposed to do, right? sacrifice myself for the greater good and all that bullshit.”_

_“not necessarily,” ignis replies with only a moment’s hesitation, caught off guard. “there is a time and place for every course of action, although i would not endorse –”_

_“throwing my life away?” noct’s yelling now, arms still thrown wide. “thought i was supposed to be prepared for anything, advisor?”_

_he spits the word like a curse, shoves at the table and storms off deeper into the apartment. ignis is left to stare at a distant imperfection on the far wall, and distracts himself with cleaning the spot of flaking paint rather than think on noct’s words. he makes sure to leave a bowl of leftovers before he leaves, less than half an hour later.)_

by the time they have made it, ignis isn’t sure he can even feel his legs anymore. they pulse and twist beneath him, a feeling only made worse when he steps foot within the confines of the throne room and an empty _otherness_ fills his being. it seeps within him, pulling and tearing at every thread of hope he has managed to keep a hold of, and before he has even taken a second step he _knows_.

the strangled cries of gladio and prompto from beside him tells him as much, in the seconds that follow. he feels the loss of their body heat like a physical wound and suddenly finds himself cold and so achingly alone.

gladio tells him later, much later when years have been put between them and such grief, of what had awaited them. he had been sat upon the throne, sword having clattered to his feet at some point, and despite the stiff coldness to his body he had looked almost the same as he had, before. ignis almost finds it within himself to let a smile slip at that, at the notion that noctis had been allowed to sit upon his rightful throne, in the very least for a few seconds, but the feeling is doused when gladio tells him of the rest.

of how noctis was pinned, and by his father’s sword no less, as if his sacrifice was nothing more than a morbid joke from the gods. _pinned_. the image almost makes ignis sick.

(gladio doesn’t tell him the whole truth. he doesn’t tell him of what it felt like, to have to pry the blade from his friend’s chest, to have to listen to the sickening noise the action made and to have to hold the brittle corpse of the one person he was destined to protect in his arms. he doesn’t tell ignis of the way that moment haunts him, like a nightmare he just can’t quite shake.

he doesn’t have to tell ignis, though. they’re all haunted, in their cursed old age.)

years on, the moment is memorialised in the stained-glass windows of the palace and in the children stories of the great darkness that consumed the world. they call noctis the ‘bringer of the light’, among other things, and survivors from the time recall tales of his exploits as if they were comrades and not refugees who saw his visage pass them by amongst the desolation. "everyone wants to be friends with legends once they’re dead," prompto mutters after a particularly bad breakdown at dinner one night, and ignis can't find the strength to disagree.

noctis is kept in the stars, where the king of kings deserves to watch the world turn, but the three of them keep the boy in their hearts forevermore, in the photographs and the scars and the memories. ignis likes to think he keeps them in his, as well.

(and he does).

 

  

* 

 

 

**step four;**

admire.

 

 

 

a sunrise breaks over the distant horizon for the first time in a decade and this is enough. people smile and cheer and cry at the yellow-pink dawn light that his ashes have spilt over the world and this is enough. a boy dies so that others may live . . . and this is enough.  

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still crying


End file.
